mouth, voice, skin
by highboys
Summary: Herakles likes talking about his other lovers.


**Title:** mouth, voice, skin  
**Fandom:** Axis Powers Hetalia  
**Characters:** Greece/Japan, Greece/Spain  
For disownmereturns.

i.

There is an earthquake.

There is an earthquake and Herakles can pinpoint the epicenter of it as he maps Kiku's skin with inquiring fingers, scrapes his nails across the ridge of bone and muscle, along the soft skin of his sides. Kiku is trembling with the kind of hopelessness his weaker foundations of land had ingrained in him. Sometimes Herakles is afraid that perhaps Kiku's economy is not enough, that his technology cannot save him from any natural disaster. Herakles cannot get through him like this, cannot distract him with calming words and gentle touches, or even with the roughness he'd use under layers and layers of sheets scattered across the tatami mat, Herakles with his hand covering Kiku's mouth as Kiku pushes at his chest and writhes with desperation.

"Let me be kind to you," he says, and Kiku lowers his eyelashes, the pupils of his eyes still dilated with the aftershocks, removed, untouched.

ii.

"This," Herakles says, "is an olive."

"Greece-san," Kiku says, hesitantly, but Herakles shakes his head and presses the olive to the base of Kiku's chin, pressing upwards to touch the rim of Kiku's lips. It looks crass, the perversion dark against the whiteness of Kiku's skin, the red of his mouth.

"Eat," Herakles says, letting his fingers nudge the fruit closer to Kiku's mouth, and Kiku opens his mouth, obedient but perplexed all the same. His eyes are clouded with confusion and a little hint of suspicion, the kind hidden under layers and layers of his soul that no one could ever displace.

Kiku must never had gone through the basic stages of development, must never have resolved the first crisis of his life. Trust is altogether a fragile thing, and Herakles is unsure of how to approach him other than by coaxing him like he would a cat.

There's still some danger in that, but this should be enough.

iii.

Sometimes Herakles likes to ask about his lovers in front of other lovers. It doesn't mean anything for most of them, only a brief period of gossiping that they could attribute to international affairs, the sort of formalities that even the most casual spaces of their lives have taken to being.

Antonio doesn't bother to hide his yawn as he gets up and out of bed, stretching, the line of his back taut with tension when he breathes in, reminiscent of an Antonio he'd known, once, before things started going bad for him. Herakles is tempted to press his lips to the bony shoulder, to worry at the skin until it blooms red and starts to bruise under his teeth. Antonio wouldn't mind.

"Japan, huh?" Antonio says, thoughtfully, slinking off to the kitchen, still unclothed, and Herakles follows. It's a habit that they have yet to get rid of, but Herakles loves to watch Antonio, who is always so comfortable in his own skin. There's an appeal to Kiku's more conservative ways, too, and sometimes Herakles isn't sure if he likes the openness of Antonio's geography more than peeling away the cotton and silk of Kiku's yukata, loose enough to slide his palm in the v of his collar, but still tight with repression and modesty, all the same.

"Beautiful," Herakles says, slinking his arms around Antonio's bare waist, but it's addressed to every inch of skin he's had the pleasure of acquianting himself with. Epicurus was always a favorite of his, after all.

"Well, he never really talks much," Antonio tells him cheerfully over the paella he reheats, "but he's nice enough. A little crazy and scary back in... you know... but I wouldn't pass up any investments."

"He's kind," Herakles says, nuzzling Antonio's cheek, breathes in the smell of Antonio's skin and sweat, and thinks of Kiku.

"Yes," Antonio says, smiling with the same guileless charm that Herakles is fond of, "he is."

iv.

Kiku watches TV at night as he strokes Herakles' hair, smiling at young, fresh-faced idols in training, forgetting, for a moment, that they would grow old in time and that this was a wretched business. Kiku looks like an ordinary man, albeit effeminate, but still ordinary, nonetheless, simply the shadow of his former greatness.

It makes Herakles' heart twist with feeling.

"Are you lonely?" Kiku asks, looking concerned, and Herakles shakes his head, inching closer.

Lonely, yes, but never alone. Kiku understands this well enough, so he waits with Herakles' cheek pressed to the skin of his thighs, waits until Herakles can find it in himself to do more than kiss the crook of his arm, the jut of his elbow, waits for Herakles to say anything, anything at all.

It's quiet outside. 


End file.
